


Crossing the Rubicon

by scoradh



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:57:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1329268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoradh/pseuds/scoradh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I need a guitar," Pete said. "I have my dad's credit card and five hundred dollars in savings, where do I go? Which kidney should I sell?"<br/>"Calm down," said Patrick. He sounded like he was eating something. "Come over to my place, I'll lend you a banjo."<br/>Or: a 10 Things I Hate About You AU.</p><p>Written in April 2008.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossing the Rubicon

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: jehnt (livejournal)

Pete was good at changing schools. He had a _technique_. Scene hair and eyeliner were like a Canadian passport, welcome everywhere but regarded with slight confusion. Even in the backwaters of Utah, he'd found other kids who dressed like him, although he was pretty sure they washed their faces in the school bathroom before they went home in the evenings.  
  
The only thing he was really worried about in Modnab, California was the weather. He'd been there for a week before starting school, to 'acclimatize'. This mainly consisted of writing in his blog and taking long walks around the breathtakingly dull suburbia. His younger brother and sister got no such leverage, but then again, he'd been doing this far longer. Learn the way of the Jedi they eventually would.  
  
But the weather was playing havoc with his hair. It got so hot the wax melted. In fact, Pete was pretty sure his car might melt if exposed for too long. One of the handles was held on with duct tape. It wasn't exactly a classic.  
  
Any subconscious fears he might have about fitting in were assuaged on meeting the careers and guidance counselor. First of all, he was a he. Second of all, he was shirtless and covered in tattoos. Sure, Pete thought it was humid, but not _that_ humid.  
  
"Clothes pander to the patriarchal hegemony," was the first thing the counselor said, leading Pete to fervently hope that he was at least wearing pants. "I'm Andy Hurley. People call me Andy Hurley. Now, we have two new students coming this week. Are you Amanda Hope or Peter Wentz the third?"  
  
Pete started to laugh, thinking this might be a joke. Andy's face was serious, though. "Um, I'm Pete Wentz," Pete said. "Um. Obviously?"  
  
"If you say so," said Andy. "Gender is a socially-defined norm." He stroked his tie. "You'll need a timetable and a map of the campus. Here at Modnab High School we have a small and closely-knit community."  
  
At this point screaming came from outside. It sounded like, "Representational art is degrading and wrong!"   
  
Pete started up from his chair. Andy, terminally serene, switched the blinds closed. "I'm sure you'll fit in perfectly."  
  
Pete sat there for a few minutes, until it became obvious he was supposed either to leave, or join Andy in some guided visualization.   
  
On his way out he passed a short kid with a floppy mohawk, plus a scorpion tattooed on his neck, which Pete was pretty sure was illegal. The kid snarled up at him, making Pete start back. Pete was no giant, but this kid could have fit under a mushroom, easy. All the same, Pete felt the doorframe against his back as he sidled out.  
  
A hot-pink post-it was stuck on top of the sheaf of papers ('recyclable,' said Andy, 'regenerated from sewage. We don't believe in killing trees'). It said: See Patrick Stumph, and gave a phone number.   
  
Pete felt a little weird about just calling some kid he didn't know, so he stalled and went back down to the cafeteria instead. Homeroom was out and the corridors were filled with teenagers hunting in packs. Pete made a beeline for the vending machines, on the theory that it was never too early for candy.  
  
A knot of earnest-looking kids in navy was standing there. One of them was actually wearing argyle socks, which. Pete didn't even know how to think about that. The kid was apparently defending the musical stance of Diana Ross after abandoning the Supremes to launch a solo career.   
  
"But, Patrick -" said one of the others, and Pete groaned. _Of course_. He'd got one of the music and performing arts geeks.  
  
"Are you all right?" said Patrick. "You don't have an ulcer, do you?"  
  
"What?" said Pete. "No."  
  
"My aunt groaned like that," said Patrick, authoritatively. "She had an ulcer. She died of it."  
  
"I don't have an ulcer, jeez." Pete grabbed his Snickers out of the machine. "Are you Patrick Stumph?"  
  
"Are you Pete and or Amanda?" said Patrick. "Andy Hurley warned me that there was fresh meat incoming."  
  
Sadly, Pete could actually imagine Andy Hurley saying that.  
  
"I'm Pete," said Pete. "I only go by Amanda to my close friends."  
  
Patrick smiled, for the first time. For the first time, Pete relaxed. No one with a smile that joyful could be all bad, even if they were scarily knowledgeable about Motown.  
  
Patrick excused himself from his friends to show Pete around before first period. There wasn't much to show: Modnab High School was never going to win awards for sheer size or square footage. Pete thought the courtyard was pretty unique, though. It featured, among other things, a fountain and two concession stands, one from Starbucks and one from Smoothie Hut.  
  
"Stake your claim now," said Patrick. "Coffee or smoothies. Once you buy from one, you're committed for _life_. Stars and Smoos are eternal and ruthless foes."   
  
"Right," said Pete. He was more convinced by the groupies hanging around each cart than Patrick's doomsday tone. The Smoos wore a lot of pastel and looked kind of like squirrels, whereas the Stars had the shifty, red-eyed appearance of confirmed addicts. Pete adjusted the zip on his lavender hoodie. "Me, I'm kinda straight-edge, so..."  
  
"Smoothies it is," said Patrick.   
  
They sat under a tree while Pete pointed out various people and Patrick gave him the low-down. ('That's Bill Beckett. His hips have been declared weapons of mass destruction by homeland security.' 'Ryan Ross. Rumor has it he steals his scarves from hobos.' 'Vicky T runs a luminous bubblegum empire from her spare bedroom.') Pete was impressed by Patrick's recall. It transpired that most people in Modnab had lived there forever, and knew everything about everyone. The idea made Pete slightly itchy.  
  
Patrick was in the middle of a tirade against the artboys ('They want us to tear down the fountain, you know. Apparently it's not post-modern enough -') when Pete, idly scanning the crowds, felt his heart stutter to a halt. Two boys walked past him, conversing in low voices. At least, one of them was talking. He was tall enough to loom and look perpetually uncomfortable, and had the largest hair Pete had seen outside of Sesame Street. The other boy was just listening, badly, his eyes drifting away. His gaze slid over Pete, who felt like he'd been burned.  
  
They settled down under the next tree. Big-Hair opened a guitar case, but the other boy was the one who took it out and settled it in his lap. A few seconds later, haunting strains reached Pete's ears. The boy had slender pale fingers. Pete wondered how he avoided getting tanned in California.  
  
"Who's that?" he managed to say. "He's really good."  
  
"Yeah, if you like Jeff Buckley," snorted Patrick. "He's Mikey Way. And that's Ray Toro. Ray's in a band. They don't suck much," he added generously.   
  
"Is ... Mikey in the band, too?"  
  
Patrick shook his head. "Mrs. Way would never let him. She's got this thing against bands and musicians and clubs. Mikey doesn't even have his own guitar."  
  
"He's cute," breathed Pete, and a second later winced. His mouth was apt to run off things without consulting his brain, and it didn't have the greatest survival instincts either. Pete had learned early to use his tiny frame for speed, not style.  
  
Fortunately, Patrick just sent him a squinty sideways look. "You gay, then?" he asked, in the same tone as he might say, "You're short, then?"  
  
"Just above the waist," Pete assured him. Patrick nodded, wisely, like he was taking it all in. It was a little while before he spoke again. By then they both had thick smoothies, with syrup added by the enthusiastic and irrepressible barista. ("He's Brendon," said Patrick, as if that explained everything.)  
  
Patrick licked the foam off his straw and asked, "So are you all smooth in front, like a Ken doll?"  
  
♣♣♣  
  
It wasn't the worst first day Pete had ever had. He shared some classes with Patrick, including last period geometry. Of course, Patrick already had a nest of nerds to pick from, so Pete flew solo for the most part. But geometry was free of assigned seating, and Patrick graced Pete with his presence. Pete didn't even try to pretend to be ungrateful.  
  
Mikey Way was also in his last period geometry class, chin against his chest. Clearly he shared Pete's appreciation of Euclid. He was sitting over by the window, where the crazy golden light of perpetual summer washed over his shoulders. Pete's view was unobstructed and his little crush growing by the minute, when a tall guy in a basketball shirt swung into the seat beside Mikey's. Mikey's chin lifted.  
  
Pete wanted to ask Patrick who the guy was, hoping for an answer like 'a five-time-convicted petty criminal,' but class had started. Figuring there was no need to add fuel to the fire, as his first pop quiz would quickly earn him the teacher's unending disdain, Pete put his head down and tried to look inconspicuous. It was a little hard to do with green bangs and black nail polish, but he pulled it off. Mainly because there was a boy in the back row with dreadlocks and a tutu.  
  
People filtered out of the room slowly when class ended. One of Patrick's navy-clad crew came over to ask him about homework club (homework club!). The tall guy wrapped his arm around Mikey's neck and nuzzled his chin into Mikey's hair. Pete was surprised by how jealous he felt. Whatever the guy was saying was amusing, because Mikey smiled. It was tiny by any standards known to man, but it was there.  
  
Pete followed Patrick out to the parking lot, managing to slip in a question about the mystery flirter. He was Gabe Saporta, "professional pimp," said Patrick. "He does nude modeling for the art school in town."  
  
"Really?" Pete laughed derisively.  
  
"Yeah." Patrick grinned in return. "He offered his services here, too, but Principle Ivarsson politely declined."  
  
Pete had passed Principle Ivarsson in the hall. Pete didn't go for blondes as a rule, but Principle Ivarsson was a blonde expressly designed to break those sorts of rules.  
  
"Word is," whispered Patrick, "she took him up on it in a private capacity."  
  
"What? Gross," said Pete, and it was, but it sadly made Gabe kind of ... cool. He watched as Gabe moved some guitar cases around in the backseat of his flash little sports car so Mikey and Ray would have room to hop in. Bill Beckett was riding shotgun, and looking rather disgruntled at having his lap loaded with instruments.  
  
"Catch you tomorrow, Wentz," said Patrick.   
  
"Do you need a lift?" asked Pete.  
  
"Nope, I'm all set." Patrick lifted a helmet out of his backpack.   
  
Pete watched as he tootled off on a bicycle, an honest-to-god bicycle with a basket on the back. Pete had never met anyone who wore argyle socks and still managed to be so effortlessly cool.  
  
He thought Mikey might have glanced at him as Gabe's sports car zoomed past, making Pete's second-hand Micra rock in the slipstream. But he probably imagined it.  
  
♣♣♣  
  
Mikey was late. Mainly Gerard knew this because he'd been home for an hour already, but there was also the sound of saucepans crashing to clue him in. Mrs. Way rarely cooked anything that involved more complicated machinery than a microwave and a bowl. Saucepans meant mischief was afoot.  
  
Gerard's window overlooked the front lawn, so he saw Mikey alighting from Gabe Saporta's sin-red death-trap. Gerard abandoned his half-finished Wedding Breakfast (for the Bride of Frankenstein) oil and went to sit on the stairs.   
  
Mikey's hair was mussed in a different way to the crushing it received from being flattened under hats. The skin under his glasses was all red. Windburn, Gerard decided. The price of driving with the top down.  
  
"Hey, Em," he said softly.  
  
Mikey looked up, his bag swinging from his fingers. "Hey, Gee." He didn't bother to lower his voice. "Mom home?" He never kept track of Mrs. Way's shifts, not like Gerard, who relied on those nights to go drinking with Greta and Bob.  
  
"Is that you, Mikeyway?" Mrs. Way stomped out of the kitchen, ladle in hand. The faint smell of burning followed her. "And where, might I ask, have you been?"  
  
"I got a ride with some friends," said Mikey, sounding bored. "We swung by the boardwalk for a while."  
  
"Next time, call first," said Mrs. Way, brandishing her ladle at him. "It wouldn't kill you to set my mind at ease."  
  
"No, Mom. Sorry, Mom."  
  
Mikey started up the stairs. Mrs. Way picked up the post, which Mikey had kicked off the mat on his way in. "Call your brother," she said to Mikey. "He's got mail."  
  
"I do?" Gerard jumped up. He slithered down the stairs and grabbed the manila envelope out of Mrs. Way's hands. There was an English stamp, blue and white, a woman's head. Sweat began to prickle under his eyes. "Oh my god," he breathed, looking at the return address.   
  
Mikey turned back and came to rest his chin on Gerard's shoulder. "What is it?"  
  
"It's from St Martin's," said Gerard. He couldn't open it. His hands wouldn't work. Instead, Mikey's snaked around from behind and awkwardly ripped open the flap.   
  
"It's thick," he said. "Is that a good sign?"  
  
Gerard pulled out a prospectus, a map, a cover letter. _Dear Mr. Way, We are delighted to inform you..._ "Yes, it's a fucking good sign." He ran and faceplanted the sofa, stifling delighted screams.   
  
"Is he having a seizure?" asked Mrs. Way. Gerard rolled his eyes. Honestly, that had been one time, after a ten-hour Halo-playing marathon.  
  
He rolled over, clutching the prospectus to his chest. He was too excited to worry if it got crumpled. "I got in, Mom! To St Martin's. In _London_." He took a deep, shuddering breath. He'd walk the same streets as Damien Hurst and Tracey Emin, sit in the same cafes as David Hockney, go to the National Gallery and Madam Tussaud's and the Tower of London. He'd be seeped in history, pickled in it, like old wine. Nothing like California, where the bright sun erased everything older than five minutes.   
  
"London?" repeated Mrs. Way. "But, honey ... I thought you decided to go to SVA. You know, stay in America? With us?"  
  
"That's not how I remember the conversation," said Gerard. "You wanted me to stay in America, I wanted to go to London. But you agreed to let me go if I got in."  
  
Mrs. Way exchanged a glance with Mikey, the 'talking about Gerard behind his back' look. Gerard seethed a little. "I suppose I didn't think you'd get in," she said faintly.   
  
"Well," said Gerard, "I did. Would it kill you to congratulate me?"  
  
"Are you really going to leave? You can't even cook, let alone speak British," said Mikey, who was sometimes a rat-bastard traitor, now that Gerard came to think about it. _And_ he was the one who'd instigated the Halo marathon that had ended with Gerard in the ER with a needle up his arm.  
  
"At least I don't have to catch rides with scum like Gabe Saporta," retorted Gerard. "Did he proposition you again?"  
  
"He - who even uses words like that?" Mikey demanded, flushing. "He just told me about this gig on Saturday night -"  
  
"A flea-infested mosh pit," Gerard clarified; Mrs. Way was looking confused.  
  
"We've discussed this," she said to Mikey. "I'm not letting you go to one of those _concerts_ unless your brother goes with you."  
  
"Ray is going -"  
  
"Ray doesn't see beyond the end of his own nose," said Mrs. Way briskly. "People could be shooting heroin into their eyeballs and he'd be looking at his feet. And Brendon's a nice boy, but silly. I can't trust them to take care of you."  
  
Mikey bristled. "I don't need taking care of. I'm _sixteen_."  
  
"Rather," said Mrs. Way, "the point."  
  
Mikey turned beseeching eyes on Gerard. The effect was amplified by his coke-bottle glasses. "Please, Gee. This isn't a flea-infested basement. It's a proper show."  
  
Gerard nearly melted, but he thought back to Mikey's comments about him moving to England. And about his own hatred of social events. People might _touch_ him.  
  
"Gabe said he could get us cheap tickets," Mikey added. That sealed the deal. Gerard went nowhere Gabe was, which had made school difficult for a while, but not more so than usual.  
  
Mrs. Way looked relieved when Gerard shook his head. An alarm went off in the kitchen. "That's my cue," she said, handing the ladle to Mikey, who looked close to stomping on it. "I've got to go. I left money in the jar for takeout. Get some salad, okay? And Gee - we'll discuss England later."  
  
She took off her housecoat. Underneath she was already wearing her uniform. She kissed them both on the cheek and hurried out the door, sneakers squeaking.  
  
"I still can't believe you told her about Bert catching chlamydia at the Smashing Pumpkins gig." Mikey scowled at Gerard. Mrs. Way ran an STD clinic; nothing was more likely to turn her against an activity than mentioning how often it led to gonorrhoea.  
  
"He did," Gerard pointed out, with absolute truth.  
  
"That's because he's a slut, not because he goes to concerts," said Mikey. "Are you really moving away?"  
  
"I guess so," said Gerard. He looked down at the shiny prospectus. "I hope so."  
  
Mikey mumbled something before he trudged upstairs. No one could trudge like Mikey: it sounded like the very floorboards were in pain.   
  
Gerard couldn't decide if he'd said 'Fuck you' or 'Don't go.'  
  
♣♣♣  
  
"You have a crush," observed Patrick.  
  
Pete, who'd been staring into space with his face in his hand, jumped. "Huh? No."  
  
"You've been staring at Mikeyway for like ten minutes," said Patrick. "Pretty soon Gabe will come over and eat your face."  
  
"God, is that a euphemism for something?"  
  
"I hope not," said Patrick, very carefully, after a few minutes.  
  
In any case, he'd startled Pete out of what he was forced to admit was a dreamy haze. Mikey was playing Ray's guitar again, while Gabe hung over him and occasionally corrected his fingering. Pete didn't think he needed the help.   
  
Anyway, "I don't have a crush," said Pete. "I just think he's cute."  
  
"Yeah, you might have mentioned that," said Patrick. "Once or twice a day. I'm sorry to break your heart or whatever, but the guy is straight."  
  
"So am I," said Pete instantly.  
  
"No, I think he's straight _all_ the way up and down," said Patrick. "Besides, I've never seen him talk. Ever. Sometimes he's called on in class and he mumbles. That's _it_ , man."  
  
"So he's the strong and silent type."  
  
Patrick scrunched up his nose. "Strong? He has arms like tiny, small, tiny ... twigs."  
  
"What about Gabe, then? Is he straight?"  
  
"Gabe goes every way," said Patrick. "And I mean that in the most literal sense possible. He's also been in more bands than precarious sexual situations. He's probably trying to recruit Mikey."  
  
"I thought he wasn't allowed to go out?"  
  
"He's not - unless Gee goes with him." At Pete's blank look, Patrick added, "His brother, Gerard. He doesn't go outside much. Which basically explains why Mikey is Stay At Home Sally."  
  
"But if Gerard went out -"  
  
Patrick shook his head. "Never happens. Oh, he goes drinking under the piers some nights with the art kids, but I think they just wallow in their silent pain and stuff. It's not really social."  
  
Pete was silent for a few minutes. He squinted up into the sun. "Do you ever just ... want to talk to someone?" he said quietly. "For no good reason. You just - like them. You want to curl up beside them and whisper secrets in their ear and hold their hand."  
  
"Ker-ist," said Patrick, "you've got it _bad_." He sighed. "I suppose it's my duty to inform you that Mikey's actually looking for someone to teach him to play bass. Someone with their own guitar, obviously."  
  
"Wait - yes! I could!"  
  
"Can you play bass?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Do you have a guitar?"  
  
"No." Pete grinned. "This is perfect! Patrick, you are a wonderful genius-type person."  
  
"Not to mention psychic," said Patrick. "I can predict with utter certainty that this won't end well."  
  
Pete just ruffled Patrick's hair and went back to staring.  
  
♣♣♣  
  
It was criminally easy to set up a lesson with Mikey. Pete sauntered over to Ray's locker that afternoon and spun a wonderful tale about needing extra cash for 'stuff'. He implied that 'stuff' included hard drugs and loose women, to make himself seem more interesting. He left a little disheartened, because Ray mainly stared at his own shoes, but an hour after school let out Pete's cell phone bleeped.  
  
 _hey ray said u give bass lessons_  
  
Pete quickly shut the phone and clenched it in his fist. His heart thumped against his ribcage, trying to get out.  
  
 _this is mikey way btw_  
  
Pete resisted the urge to text back: _i no_ and quote Shakespeare. Instead, he spent an hour composing a suitably casual reply, suggesting they meet up after school the next day. Then he rang Patrick, frantic.  
  
"I need a guitar," he said. "I have my dad's credit card and five hundred dollars in savings, where do I go? Which kidney should I sell?"  
  
"Calm down," said Patrick. He sounded like he was eating something. "Come over to my place, I'll lend you a banjo."  
  
Patrick had approximately five hundred and seventy guitars just lying about. Also a drum kit, a didgeridoo, a trombone and a piccolo.   
  
"I thought you might need this, too." Deadpan, Patrick handed over _Bass for Beginners_. "My dad's a music teacher. He uses it for the really hopeless cases."  
  
Pete didn't go to sleep that night. He was almost tempted to visit the Starbucks cart in the morning, but Brendon was watching him. He was moving a lollipop from one side of his mouth to the other. Apart from the spiky hair and pink hoodie, he bore a startling resemblance to Don Corleone.  
  
"Give me something to wake me up," Pete begged.  
  
Brendon brightened. "Do you mean you want my Super Secret Secret Ingredient?"  
  
"If it bears a passing resemblance to caffeine," said Pete, "then yes." Straight edge morals were for awake people.  
  
He drank the smoothie, which was an alarming shade of electric blue, and spent the morning alternately hearing high-pitched buzzing noises and cursing the Uries to the eighth generation. The high wore off at about lunch time. Pete wove in and out of consciousness, hearing snatches of Patrick's conversation with a sophomore called Joe.   
  
"It'll be mega," Joe said at one point, shocking Pete into temporary wakefulness. He hadn't realized there were people still alive who used the word 'mega.' "Jon even had special invites made, Stars only." He held up a flyer, scribbled all over with black marker.   
  
"Crash it?" said Patrick.  
  
"Crash it," agreed Joe. Pete nodded. Crashing was what he was doing, all right.  
  
After the last bell he went to the appointed place by the fountain and rested his head against a stone cherub. The stone was warm, the sun too bright.   
  
The next thing he knew he was being shaken awake. He tried to wriggle away, but the shaker was insistent.   
  
"Five more min'es, Mom," he mumbled.  
  
"Uh, no," said a voice that was so not his mom's, Pete didn't know how to express it.  
  
"You're Pete, right?" Mikey - for Mikey it was, standing back and taking his hand off Pete's shoulder - said. "I'm Mikey Way."  
  
"I know," blurted Pete, still fuzzy-minded. He blushed, but Mikey seemed to take that in stride. Modnab High School really was that small.  
  
"You have a guitar, great," said Mikey, and what had Patrick said about Mikey never speaking? He had a low, soft voice, sort of like crunchy velvet, and Patrick hadn't lied when he claimed Pete had it bad.   
  
"So you want to play bass?" said Pete. He immediately wanted to slap himself.   
  
"Yeah," said Mikey, obviously a kind and forgiving soul. "I play rhythm guitar fine, but I don't like fronting."  
  
"Sure." Pete nodded, making out he understood any of that. "Well, bass is pretty simple." According to _Bass for Beginners_.   
  
Mikey opened the guitar case and took out the guitar, cradling it in his palms. Pete couldn't look away. A faint dusting of an expression lit up Mikey's face, which was ninety percent hidden by glasses and hair.  
  
"You must like going to -" Pete gulped "- gigs and stuff then. Are there any good places around here?"  
  
"I wouldn't know," said Mikey. "My mom doesn't let me go to any. You should ask Gabe."  
  
"Why not?" pressed Pete. Not just because he wanted the answer from Mikey's lips (oh shit, Mikey's _lips_ ), but because he liked hearing Mikey speak.   
  
Mikey shrugged, splaying his right hand over the fret. "She wants my brother to go with me, to protect me from big bad wolves, and he won't. So."  
  
"He never goes to gigs?"  
  
"He never goes anywhere," corrected Mikey.   
  
"Maybe if there was a band he liked..."  
  
"Yeah, I don't think Glen Miller will be playing shows any time soon."  
  
"Right." Pete studied Mikey under his bangs.   
  
"So, the lesson?" Mikey looked up, not quite at Pete's face. "Not to be rude, but I have to get home before my mom, or I'll be grounded."  
  
"Sure, yeah." Pete frantically wracked his brain for the things he'd learned ten hours earlier. "Okay. First of all, start by putting your hands like this..."  
  
♣♣♣  
  
Pete and Mikey parted ways in the herbaceous border. Pete had offered Mikey a ride home, but Mikey declined. He just said, "Thanks, but I'm good," which set off a dozen sparklers of jealousy in Pete's chest. He assumed Mikey was going with Gabe, although Ray was getting a late coffee at the Starbucks cart. Ray was a nicer option, and one that was completely rejected by the insane person living inside Pete's head.  
  
Brendon sent Mikey darkling looks as Pete ordered a banana smoothie to go. "Sometimes I worry about that boy's allegiances," he told Pete, as Ray waved a mocha in front of Mikey's scowling face. Sometimes Pete worried about the allegiances too, and what would happen to him if he ever really needed a peppermint tea or something.  
  
"So," continued Brendon, leaning over the counter, "did you hear about the Stars' party? You're welcome to come crash it with us. Gabe's band is playing, should be good."  
  
"Hmm," said Pete. He slanted his eyes across to Mikey again. During their conversation he'd asked Mikey if he'd read Harry Potter. Mikey hadn't, but he liked the films okay. It was probably impossibly dorky to ask Mikey if he wanted to come over some time and watch them together. Pete would probably do it anyway.  
  
He'd stared at Mikey's ear for a lot of the time, wanting to lick the delicate curve, the pink shell. But that was okay, because ears were above the waist. Totally.  
  
"I'd love to get Mikey to come," said Brendon, who clearly didn't require much in the way of audience participation. "But his mom's so uptight about live music we practically have to get DJs to sign an affidavit before she'll let him out the door."  
  
"But if Gerard came, Mikey could," said Pete. "Right?"  
  
"Yeah, and maybe it'll start raining marshmallows and sherbet," said Brendon. "That'll be two dollars, please."  
  
Pete rummaged in his pockets - always a tricky manoeuvre - and found himself with a handful of change. "Er ... I don't think I have enough for a tip."  
  
"That's all right," said Brendon. "But you have to pay me back in kisses."  
  
Pete only got to the first syllable of 'seriously?' before Brendon grabbed him around the back of the head and smashed his lips into the corner of Pete's mouth. Brendon was wearing some kind of fruity lip balm: the scent fried the nerve endings in Pete's nose.  
  
"Jesus, is that ginseng?" he gasped.   
  
"No! Eucalyptus."  
  
"Isn't it time for you to close up shop?" said Mikey from behind Pete. Pete blushed, and Brendon's eyes widened for a second. "Jon left ages ago."  
  
"Don't compare me to that miscreant," sniffed Brendon. "I have a work ethic, you know."  
  
"And it is, what? Sexually assault your customers till they cry and give in?"  
  
"Pete isn't crying," said Brendon. He pulled off Mikey's cap and put it on his own head, with an ominous creak of hair gel. "He's a manly man, unlike you."  
  
"Excuse me for not wanting your tongue down my throat every five seconds," said Mikey dryly. Pete couldn't stop checking him out in his peripheral vision. Little licks of hair brushed his cheeks and fell into his eyes. Brendon was doing some kind of voodoo monkey dance, fortunately, and didn't notice.  
  
"Pete's crashing the Stars party with us on Saturday," said Brendon. Pete couldn't remember saying that at all. "Could you try talking your mom around -"  
  
But Mikey was shaking his head. "She's already pissed about Gee. No way is she letting me go."  
  
"Shame," sighed Brendon. Then he brightened. "We could kidnap you!"  
  
"No."  
  
"Come on, you only fell a few feet last time. Some minor scratches. Tiny, really, compared to Vietnam."  
  
"Brendon," said Mikey, "no."  
  
"You guys coming or what?" yelled Ray.   
  
"See ya, Petey!" Brendon darted in for another kiss, getting Pete square in the nose. He'd be reeking of koalas for a week.  
  
"Sorry about Brendon," said Mikey. He sketched an apology with his hands. "He's ... Brendon."  
  
Pete nodded. "Same time tomorrow?"  
  
"Sure," said Mikey. And Pete had to grab the side of the cart for support, because Mikey smiled, and it was the greatest thing Pete had ever seen.  
  
♣♣♣  
  
"Patrick, I love you," said Pete.  
  
"What do you want now?" asked Patrick, who'd quickly cottoned on to the basic layout of this relationship.  
  
"You know everyone here." Pete pushed a tuna and sweetcorn roll into Patrick's hands. Patrick hated cafeteria food but he also slept too late to make proper lunches. Pete was a mean hand with a sandwich. "Who could convince Gerard Way to go to a gig?"  
  
"No one," said Patrick. His eyes were fixed on the roll with something like religious fervor.   
  
"He has no friends?"  
  
"Sure, he has friends. Greta and Bob. They hold protest rallies about once a week."  
  
"What are they protesting?"  
  
Patrick paused, roll halfway to his mouth. "Do you know, I have no idea? Corporate art, maybe. Or the price of canvas. Something deeply relevant to the fate of humanity, anyway."  
  
"Could we work through them?"  
  
"We?" said Patrick. Pete produced his secret weapon: a slice of his mom's homemade peach cobbler. Patrick looked like he might cry. "Oh. Okay. No. Gerard's really stubborn and they've all been friends since forever. They can't not know that about him."  
  
"So we need someone equally stubborn but who Gerard will follow," said Pete.  
  
"I've heard Jesus is planning a second coming any day now," said Patrick, but he did glance around the cafeteria. After a second, he said slowly, "I suppose there's always Frank Iero."  
  
He pointed at a far table. A vicious-looking kid was tearing apart a pizza. He looked familiar; when he turned his head to snarl at the boy beside him, Pete saw the tattoo and realized why.   
  
"He looks capable of tying up Gerard and dragging him there," said Pete. "The caveman routine was not so much what I had in mind, though."  
  
"Beggars can't be choosers," Patrick pointed out. "And Frank's an unknown quantity. He transferred from New Jersey last year. I heard he did time in Pencey Penitentiary."  
  
"For juvenile delinquents?" clarified Pete. "His resume just keeps getting better."  
  
"We could sell him as a tortured soul," suggested Patrick. "Gerard will totally go for that."  
  
"What about Iero? How do we sell Gerard to him?"  
  
"I don't know," said Patrick. "Money'd be favorite. You got any cash on you?"  
  
"Yeah, but I'm not using it," said Pete. "I don't want this traced back to me." At Patrick's confused look, he added, "Come on! This is the definition of desperate: paying someone to get you a date by proxy."  
  
"Oh, so you want to _date_ Mikey now?" said Patrick.  
  
"Um," said Pete. What he _wanted_ , basically, was an extended makeout session with Mikey, on a bed (Pete's, Mikey's, Patrick's, Frank Iero's; any bed would do), their legs tangled together, kissing with tongues until they got sweaty and warm. Patrick would most likely regard that as too much information, though.   
  
"Let me see if I can hook you up," said Patrick. "But only because you love me."  
  
"And my baked goods," said Pete. "It's apple pie day tomorrow at Chez Wentz. You want in?"  
  
♣♣♣  
  
Frank had been angry for what felt like forever.  
  
He was angry at his mom for leaving his dad, at his dad for making her. He was angry at having to move away from Jersey and all the things that made the divorce remotely bearable. He was angry at California, with its indefatigable cheerfulness and 365-days-a-year-sunshine. He was angry at Modnab High School for being small and welcoming and enthusiastic. He was angry at his teachers, for teaching different stuff in a different way than he'd been used to. He was even angry at the goddamn beach.  
  
Most of all, though, he was angry at himself.   
  
Before!Frank had been a bubbly kid. That was always the word adults and yearbook people used to caption him: 'bubbly'. 'Friendly'. 'Happy go lucky.' Things like that. Frank doubted people in Modnab would call him any of those things. Some random stoner had tried to hit him up for crack just last week. That was Now!Frank: the go-to guy for hard drugs. Frank found it darkly humorous.  
  
He sometimes wished he had drugs to take, but more in a self-punishing way than in a 'wanting to be whacked' way. The only meds his mom kept in the house were Tylenol and Neosporin. Frank didn't think even hardcore junkies would get desperate enough to mainline Neosporin.  
  
After a parent-teacher meeting his mom said despairingly, "Frankie, you aren't even trying to fit in here."  
  
It was true: he wasn't. Some five-year-old part of his brain thought that if he shut his eyes long enough, things would snap back to the way they were. So he continued bombing tests, turning in half-finished homework or no homework at all, repulsing all efforts at social interaction. There were lots of those: Mobnab was a friendly place. He kind of ate lunch with some metalheads, but even they were pretty chill. Travis sometimes turned up in a tutu or a kaftan, admittedly because he was stoned all the time, and Butcher braked for animals. But he didn't talk to them and they didn't hang out.   
  
So the first time Gabe Saporta spoke to Frank, he was pretty surprised. In fact, he thought Gabe might be hollering at someone else, an assumption that was put to the lie when Gabe dropped an orangutan arm over his shoulders and crushed him into his armpit, albeit in a friendly manner.   
  
"I was looking for you everywhere," said Gabe. He sounded like this was a mammoth task, like he walked Pole to Pole in his quest for Frank. In fact, it took ten minutes to walk from one end of Modnab High School to the other, and that was without having Gabe's mile-long legs.  
  
"I don't sell drugs," said Frank immediately. Gabe looked kind of shocked, but then he let out a bellow of a laugh.  
  
"Good," he said. "My dad's a cop. I have a favor of a different sort to ask."  
  
"I don't date guys, either," said Frank. This was only technically true. He'd made out with Bobbie Venom for three hours the night before he flew out to Modnab. That had been all Bobbie, though, and Frank was too upset and rage-sick to care. Or stop him.  
  
"Hold it back a little, Frankie," said Gabe. "We're in the baby steps stage here, you need to retain your mystique."  
  
"What do you want?" snapped Frank. Gabe was rich - or at least, his family was - and he played in a band and girls fell out of trees to date him. Frank had nothing Gabe could possibly want or need.  
  
"Do you know Gerard Way?"  
  
"I know of him." Frank shrugged. Gerard Way was in his class and wore eyeliner: a little hard to miss.  
  
"I want you to convince him to go to the Stars party on Saturday night."  
  
"Yeah, right." Frank laughed derisively. The Stars versus Smoos rivalry that took the place of something normal, like geeks versus jocks, didn't actually make him angry. He just thought it was stupid. "Why would I do that?"  
  
"I don't know." Gabe flicked a wad of bills in his face. "Because Benjamin Franklin wants you to?"  
  
Frank followed the greenbacks hungrily. Money was tight since the divorce. 'At least the weather's free,' his mother joked, which was Frank's cue to mention how much he missed snow.  
  
"I can see by your eyes that you agree, young Skywalker," said Gabe pompously. "All this is yours, plus a few camels and desert oasis, if you get me Gerard Way."  
  
"You aren't going to ... sell him to the white slave trade, or something, are you?" asked Frank. Gabe wore baseball caps backwards; he was capable of anything.  
  
"Of course not," snorted Gabe. "As if they'd want him. What's your cell?"  
  
"I -"  
  
"No, I'm not going to forward it to the mafia," said Gabe. "I thought you might need the address of Gee's favorite art gallery. I'm not paying you peanuts, Iero. Don't fuck this up."  
  
Gabe's eyes glinted. He looked a bit like a snake. A demented, sartorially-challenged snake. "Okay," said Frank, and quickly reeled off the numbers.  
  
♣♣♣

  
[part i](http://scoradh.livejournal.com/140578.html)  
  
Frank didn't really intend to do Gabe's bidding. He didn't intend to keep Gabe's money, either. He just liked the feeling of it in his pocket, not to mention the idea that he _could_ get some new Vans now, if he wanted.   
  
It was the name that did it: Shooting Gallery. It was a cool name, although Frank sat on the bus and thought maybe Gabe was sending him to a shooting range to be mauled by men in check jackets. He justified the trip by deciding Gabe could spare the five dollars Frank used out of his 'wages'. Everything else ... wasn't going to work, that was all. It wasn't like he had any sway over the kid. He'd never even spoken to Gerard, which wasn't something any other student in his class could boast. Gerard elevated reticence to an art form.  
  
Frank hesitated at the door to the gallery. It was one of the ones where you paid for things, not just an entrance fee, and he suddenly wasn't sure if he was allowed. Which was stupid, because he had a hundred dollars in his back pocket. He could probably afford, like, half of something. At least.  
  
The gallery itself was a series of octagonal rooms leading into and off each other. The walls and floor were white, the better to offset the artwork. One room had a fireplace full of shattered glass. Another held a video screen showing a man running down a tunnel over and over, all in shades of green. It wasn't anything Frank would like to stick on his wall, but it was still pretty cool.  
  
He found Gerard sitting on a (white) bench in the next room, staring at a painting. He looked rapt. Frank felt awkward, like he was intruding.   
  
Gerard noticed him first; or so Frank assumed, because he spoke. "It's like drowning in color," he said.   
  
Frank looked at the painting. It reminded him of the inside of his head, when he woke up hung-over and with lights blaring behind his eyelids.  
  
"What's it of?" he asked.  
  
"Who cares?" said Gerard. "It's called Fortitude in F Major. Just feel it."  
  
Frank wasn't sure how to go about 'feeling' a painting, but Gerard grabbed his hand. Frank's first thought was 'whoa, fast mover' but Gerard just pressed Frank's hand over his own chest.   
  
"Can you feel your heartbeat?" he asked.  
  
Actually, Frank could. Up close, Gerard was even prettier, and he smelled of acorns or syrup or something that was just _nice_. All right, so his hair could have done with a wash - or five - but Frank wasn't used to being solicited as a pimp or having his hand grabbed by strange boys. So what if his heart was beating a little fast.  
  
After a bit Gerard apparently got sick of feeling the painting and slumped back on the bench. Frank followed suit. He'd had a chance to check the discreet price tag under the painting. It cost quite a lot for something that looked like a paint fight gone wrong.  
  
"Paintings like this can save your life," said Gerard quietly. He glanced over at Frank and smiled. Frank felt that more than any painting.   
  
"I'll take your word for it," said Frank.   
  
"You should," said Gerard, dead serious. "Frank. You're Frank, aren't you?"  
  
"Yeah," said Frank.   
  
"You look more like a Frankie," said Gerard. Frank looked at him sharply, but Gerard's eyes were back on the painting. All Frank's friends in Jersey called him Frankie. "I'm Gerard Way. Did you really blow up your last school?"  
  
"What? No!" exclaimed Frank. Gerard laughed. "Well, okay, there was an _incident_ with a couple firecrackers and the caretaker's shed. But it only caught fire a little bit and we put it out. My eyebrows were the main casualties," he added, remembering. "Do people really think I'm like that?"  
  
"They think lots of things about you," said Gerard. "You've given them plenty of room. Compared to you, my brother Mikey talks non-stop."  
  
"Oh, well." Frank frowned down at his knuckles. He'd inked in 'Halloween' again during history, adding a lot of cobwebby embellishments. He didn't like history much. It was full of bad stuff happening over and over, and who wanted to remember that?  
  
"This is sweet." Gerard took his hand again. His fingers were cool and dry, and he had paint flakes under his nails. "I like the little orange bits."  
  
"Yeah, I had some time."  
  
"How'd you manage to get the tattoo?" asked Gerard. He reached up and for a second Frank thought he might touch his neck. But Gerard stopped at the last minute, swishing Frank's hair aside instead. "It's really well done."  
  
"My dad owed me a favor," said Frank. "Plus, he knows some good places. He's got a few himself."  
  
"I'm terrified of needles," said Gerard, "but I'd love to get a tattoo." He pushed up his sleeve, exposing a fantastically detailed dragon winding around his forearm. He'd used green and blue ink. The dragon was asleep, head resting on the bump of Gerard's wrist bone, but one jewel eye was half-open under a heavy lid.   
  
"That's it," said Frank, "you're designing my next one."  
  
"I have to warn you, I charge high."  
  
"It'd be worth it," said Frank fervently.  
  
Gerard laughed again and smoothed down his sleeve. "What brings you here? I haven't seen you around before."  
  
"Oh, I ... heard about this place from a friend," said Frank. "Listen, I was wondering. Do you want to, like, come to a party with me? On Saturday?"  
  
"The Stars thing?" Gerard scrunched up his nose in a kind of adorable way. "I'm not really a big party-goer. All parties are the same, you know? Getting drunk, getting off."  
  
Frank privately thought that was the _point_ , okay, but he said, "This would be different. I mean, we'd be there, for starters."   
  
He only meant it in the most literal sense. Frank had only gone to one party all year, a beach barbeque with lots of bikinis and burnt sausages. He'd been utterly miserable and drank enough to pass out. Waking up on a pre-dawn beach with his pants full of sand wasn't an experience that Frank was keen to repeat.  
  
But Gerard's face had gone all glowy and he was sucking in his lower lip. "Do you mean ... like. A date?"  
  
"I. Um." Frank thought about Gerard's smile and the hundred bucks in his back pocket. "Yes?"  
  
"Okay?" Gerard cleared his throat, and his second answer came out less querulous. "Okay. Thanks. I mean, I will."  
  
"Right." Frank jumped up. "I'll pick you up, eight o'clock?"  
  
Gerard nodded and told Frank his address. Frank recognized it: it was a few blocks over from his own house. He thought he might even know the house, if it was the white-shingled one with the blue door and all the shell wind chimes.   
  
He was glad Gerard didn't ask for his number, though. That would have been going too far. That would have been making this almost real.  
  
♣♣♣  
  
Mrs. Way wasn't too happy when she heard about the party. Gerard couldn't blame her: ever since the Incident in ninth grade, they'd conspired to keep Mikey out of Gabe Saporta's clutches. It helped that Mikey was straight. He'd even dated a few times, gone out with a really nice girl called Alicia for over a year. Minor details like that never mattered to Gabe, though, and Gerard knew he'd happily take Mikey's obliviousness for encouragement. All of it made Gerard's sudden decision to go to a party hosted by Gabe all the more suspicious.  
  
But Gerard didn't get asked on dates often. Or ever. Especially by people he secretly thought were cool. He'd never believed the delinquent rumors - which probably originated with Gabe - but they did make him notice Frank. Specifically, notice his sad, angry face and realize how much he wanted to draw it. He wasn't _into_ Frank, no matter what Greta implied with her teasing. He thought he'd like to get to know him, but that was it. And contrary to Bob's belief, one date did not equal three-act sex.  
  
Mikey was downstairs getting the 'your brain on drugs' lecture from Mrs. Way when Frank's car pulled up. Gerard was fixing his hair in the mirror, one eye on the window. He accidentally flattened the piece of hair he'd been trying to style excitingly for the last ten minutes and bounded down the stairs.  
  
"- just hold it for a second," commanded Mrs. Way. Mikey's expression changed from bored to horrified in ten seconds flat.  
  
"Mom, no," he complained, but it was too late. Mrs. Way plopped the replica of a 'Brain Destroyed By Cannabis' into his hands, where it squelched forlornly.  
  
Gerard paused by the door for Frank's knock, then waited ten long seconds before opening so as not to seem lame and enthusiastic. Frank was dressed in a stripy black-and-white shirt that covered his hands and a newsboy cap. Gerard even thought he saw a hint of eyeliner.   
  
"Hi," said Gerard, feeling stupid and nervous.  
  
"Hi," said Frank, sounding stupid and nervous. His eyes shifted. "Hey, wow, brains. Is your brother a zombie?"  
  
♣♣♣  
  
Patrick sat on Pete's bed, eating chocolate cake while Pete painstakingly rimmed his eyes in kohl. He'd politely but firmly turned down Pete's offer to do him as well.  
  
"I like to let my natural beauty shine through unenhanced," he'd said.  
  
"So Mikey's definitely coming tonight?" Pete asked for the third time. His hand shook slightly. If he wasn't careful he'd end up looking like a raccoon.  
  
"Yesh," said Patrick, though a mouthful of cream filling. "I overheard Gabe telling Bill that tonight would be his chance to nail Mikey."  
  
" _What_?"  
  
"I didn't tell you that part before?" said Patrick innocently.  
  
"No!" Pete stared forlornly at his reflection. He'd have to redo his left eye entirely. He scrabbled around for baby wipes to get the eyeliner off his cheek.  
  
"Did I mention Bill _braided_ my _hair_?" said Patrick. "Now you can share some of my mental anguish."  
  
"Hey, at least they were nice braids," said Pete. "Bill's pretty talented."  
  
"He also gave me a head massage," said Patrick. "I feel violated."  
  
"It worked, didn't it?" said Pete. "Though, I kind of underestimated Gabe's interest in Mikey. God."  
  
"You're both heading for a fall," said Patrick. "I know Mikey's ex-girlfriend. Ex- _girl_ friend. And he's hooked up with half the girls in our class."  
  
Pete let Patrick's voice fade into the background. His Mikey headspace was kind of messed up. Originally it had been one of his chaste crushes, that either faltered and died or played out as a few cinema nights full of (on Pete's part) languid, desperate looks and a lot of angsting on his blog. His crushes usually turned into friends, while he hooked up with their sisters or cousins or, in non-Mormon states, their brothers. Actually trying for the object of his affections seemed too dangerous, somehow.  
  
But he really liked Mikey. Pete was man enough to admit it was mainly because, a, he couldn't have him and b, some other guy wanted him. It wasn't a scenario Pete had much experience with, so the novelty was probably the main attraction. But Mikey was cute, and Pete liked his hands, and he would not say no to making out with him once. Or twice. Or lots. Gabe was just...  
  
"Gabe's wrong for him," said Pete. "He's too self-centered. Mikey needs someone to laugh at his jokes. In case he ever makes one. Plus, our names rhyme."  
  
"What?" Patrick put down his fork. "Mikey rhymes with Pete? Since when?"  
  
"Well, it rhymes with Petey," amended Pete. "Sort of. Not in iambic pentameter or anything."  
  
Patrick stared at him. Then he picked up a pillow and flung it at Pete's head.  
  
After they finished laughing, Pete had to do both eyes all over again.  
  
♣♣♣  
  
Pete thought it was a pretty good party. He'd been to some wild ones in his time, and this wasn't wild, but it wasn't a day at the museum either. Mostly people were dancing with more enthusiasm than skill, so Pete felt okay about joining them for a while. He even thought he spotted Frank and Gerard in the crowd.  
  
Patrick drifted off to the snack table. The next Pete saw of him, he was sharing Twizzlers with a curly-headed blonde girl. Patrick looked kind of red in the face. Pete grinned to himself and wished Patrick luck - silently. He didn't think Patrick would appreciate any verbal encouragement.  
  
He decided now was the time to find Mikey. Gabe's band was taking a break and the sound levels were down a little, although not for long, if the guys at the decks had anything to do with it. So it was in almost perfect silence that Pete walked in on Mikey and Gabe in a heated, grinding embrace.  
  
It felt like they were the only three people in the universe, although the room - it looked like a laundry - was filled to capacity. Bill was folded up on a washing machine, giggling, and Ray was carefully tuning a guitar. Pete was aware of them, could see them, even, but his mind was filled with Gabe's hand, huge on Mikey's back, and the way they slotted together so perfectly.  
  
Gabe noticed Pete first, and seemed to take it as a reason to clutch Mikey tighter. "It's the Petemeister!" he yelled. "Brendon's been looking for you, says you owe him some tips?"  
  
"Right," said Pete. His lips felt numb. Mikey's head peeked over Gabe's broad, violet-clad shoulder. He might have said, 'Hey Pete', but his voice was low and lost in the buzz of Pete's head. A second later the music started up.  
  
"Fucking Christ," yelled Gabe, dropping Mikey, "is that _Evanescence_?"   
  
Bill leapt lightly off the washing machine and grabbed a sweeping brush. "To honor!" he yelled, and led the charge. A second later Pete, Mikey, Ray and Ray's guitar were the only people left in the room.  
  
Ray looked up, blinking hair out of his eyes. "Oh, are we back on?" he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he ambled out.  
  
And then there were two.   
  
Pete stared very hard at the floor, taking in every aspect of the hideous linoleum. He reminded himself fiercely that most of his crushes ended this way. It didn't do much good. And Mikey wasn't saying anything and wasn't saying anything.  
  
"I guess I should find Brendon," mumbled Pete at last. He shuffled for the door and nearly collided with it, because he still hadn't looked up.   
  
"Pete," said Mikey, and Pete's heart jumped. "Be careful. Brendon had, like, fourteen bowls of Froot Loops before he came here."  
  
"Right," said Pete, "I'll keep that in mind."   
  
His heart fell, and broke.  
  
♣♣♣  
  
Gerard liked corners, Frank discovered. He moved around with the sole intention of keeping his back to one.   
  
After the initial rush of nervousness, it was turning into a pretty boring party. Gabe was up on a little platform, licking a microphone, too far away to do more than leer suggestively at Frank. Frank wasn't anything but grateful for that. The liquor wasn't plentiful and the chips were stale. Ordinarily Frank liked dancing, but not when there was no one to dance with. Gerard flinched when people brushed past him. His friend Greta was there, which would have been an option but for the way Patrick Stumph was macking on her.  
  
"Do you ever dance?" Frank asked, after an hour.  
  
"Yeah, but," Gerard paused, "I hate people watching me."  
  
"You mean on a dance floor? Why would they watch you?"  
  
"Because I'm bad at it?" Gerard shrugged. "I haven't really analyzed my social phobias all that much, okay."  
  
"Come with me," said Frank. He thrust out an arm to herd Gerard along, and Gerard put his hand in Frank's.  
  
Frank wasn't sure about that, but Gerard's hand wasn't overly sweaty or anything. He let it slide.   
  
Frank threaded his way through the press of people. He and Gerard were pretty small - nearly of a height, actually - and they ducked and weaved like ninjas. Well, Frank did. Gerard mostly bumped into people.   
  
The backyard was huge and empty, apart from some dude getting sick in a bush. He didn't count. The music was loud enough to be heard even out here, and Frank wondered if Gabe had paid off the neighbors. More likely he had a telescope and blackmail. The lyrics were muffled, but the bass beat was strong.  
  
Gerard's hand was still in his. Frank used it to spin Gerard around, get him started. "No one to watch now," said Frank, "unless you're scared of me, which is stupid."  
  
"True," agreed Gerard. "You're not hiding a firework under your shirt, are you?"  
  
Frank swatted him; Gerard ducked away, laughing. Just like that, they were dancing. Even Frank was a little self-conscious at first, but he made like he had a guitar and got into it. He even closed his eyes and threw his head around at one point. He thought Gerard might laugh at that. He was staring when Frank opened his eyes, but not in a bad way.   
  
Frank could see why Gerard didn't like dancing in front of people, because he basically danced like he had tetanus: all reined-in jerks and facial spasms. But at least they were _doing_ something. Parties weren't designed for spectators.  
  
The song ended. It was followed by a long stretch of silence. When it became clear that no new music was forthcoming, Gerard wandered over to the gazebo. Frank followed. The gazebo twinkled with blue fairy lights; two statues of ferocious, scowling bulldogs guarded the entrance. Frank would have put money on Gabe's hand being in the decoration.   
  
Gerard patted the dogs' heads as he passed. Frank thought that was goofy-cute, unlike Gerard's ass when he bent over, which was just hot. Frank blamed the tight jeans Gerard was wearing, if wearing was the right word. They looked almost painted-on. No way did Frank routinely think that about other guys' asses.  
  
The jeans must have had some weird effect on Gerard, too, because Frank had only just sat down on the bench beside him when Gerard leaned over and kissed him.  
  
Frank said, "Huh," and Gerard pulled back. It had been a really quick kiss, more of a lip-swipe. Frank had had sex that didn't leave him this breathless.  
  
Gerard looked uncertain. He was knotting his hands together, so Frank took one and held it. They'd held hands while they were dancing, too. Frank was getting kind of used to it.  
  
"I -" said Gerard, at the same time as Frank said, "You know -"   
  
"Go on," said Frank, but Gerard just ducked his head, all bashful. His fingers tightened on Frank's, and Frank just had to kiss him.   
  
He aimed for Gerard's cheek, which was slowly turning pink, but at the last minute Gerard turned and opened his mouth to speak. That made the kiss a whole lot wetter and a world more intense. Frank slipped him the tongue after just two seconds. He usually had more restraint - he'd had practice - but Gerard's mouth was slippery and pliant under his. Frank wrapped his arm around Gerard's neck and kissed him deeper.  
  
And it was all good until Gerard shuddered, as if he'd just come to life. He turned in Frank's arms and moaned, hands coming up to clutch at Frank's waist and getting skin. His tongue brushed Frank's, and Frank freaked the fuck out.  
  
He didn't realize he'd jumped away until he was standing, hands behind his head like he was getting arrested. Gerard sprawled on the floor, halfway between well-kissed dazed and hurt-and-confused dazed. He must have fallen backwards. Or maybe Frank had pushed him, accidentally too hard.  
  
"Frank," said Gerard, and Frank couldn't do this. He couldn't do this. Not even for a hundred dollars and the new pair of Vans he was wearing and Gerard's heart-melting smile.  
  
He turned and ran.  
  
♣♣♣  
  
Pete wanted to think the next hour was the worst of his life, but even his innate sense of melodrama failed at that. Moving away from places he liked trumped it easily. Besides, he was actually having a good time, apart from the fact that he felt like the little mermaid ( _walking on swords, no good with words_ ).  
  
Patrick was adorably hilarious running between the snack table and Greta. If she ate half of what he gave her Pete would shave his head. He spotted her tipping something into a potted plant at one point, but she kept agreeing to more. Greta wasn't Pete's type in girls, she was all roses and sunshine hair, but it was clear how much Patrick rated her. In fact, Pete was affronted that Patrick had never mentioned it before. Then again, he'd known the guy what, two months? Pete had to constantly remind himself that not everyone wore their heart and most other vital organs on their sleeves, like he did.  
  
And there was Brendon. Brendon who found Pete five seconds after he'd slouched away from Mikey and zoned in on him. Pete did get a split-second ominous feeling that he was being watched - or aimed at - before Brendon dive-bombed him from a coffee table and climbed him like a tree.   
  
"That's my windpipe," gasped Pete. Brendon didn't seem to care.  
  
"This way, horsey!" he said. "There's someone you need to meet."  
  
It was clearly with his shield or Brendon on it: Pete obeyed. Brendon guided him to the kitchen by pulling his hair, which had taken an hour to flat-iron straight, _thank_ you. Brendon yelled, "Hey Spencer!" at a kid in white jeans and a purple t-shirt. Pete had to admire him: not everyone could pull off white jeans.  
  
Pete recognized Ryan, the scarf-guy. He was standing beside Spencer in the tightest pants Pete had ever seen, teamed with gold high-top sneakers. He could see why Brendon, who was wearing lime-green heart-shaped glasses, wanted to hang out with them. Obviously this kind of thing was catching.  
  
"Lemme down, lemme down," said Brendon, as if Pete had _begged_ him for the honor of lugging him around. "Spencer, my love, it has been too long."  
  
"Fuck off, Urie," said Spencer, amiably. He let Brendon squeeze him sideways, though, so Pete relaxed. And realized Ryan was checking him out.  
  
He wasn't exactly being subtle, either, cocking his hip out and curling his gaze around Pete from hips to mouth. He didn't say anything, though. His hair fell in his face and he looked up at Pete through it. God, those were Pete's exact moves.  
  
"Hi," said Pete, wittily.  
  
"Hi," said Ryan.  
  
Brendon scowled and swung away from Spencer. "Careful there, Tarzan," said Spencer, knocking a cabinet closed before Brendon cracked his head on it.   
  
"Pete, don't talk to _Ryan_ ," said Brendon. "He's a Star, you're not _allowed_."  
  
"Be more obvious, please," said Spencer. "Anyway, I'm a Star, remember?"  
  
"And also an honorary Smoo," said Brendon. "Ryan is _not_ an honorary Smoo."  
  
"Cry," said Ryan, pretending to rub his eyes.   
  
Brendon poked Spencer. "Make your friend stop mocking me."  
  
"Yeah, like I can make Ryan do anything," said Spencer. "I'm going to go get chips."  
  
"You can't leave me! Ryan might glare me to death!"  
  
"I'll bury you cheap," said Spencer.  
  
He sauntered away, and Pete didn't think he was the only one checking out that ass.   
  
Brendon ducked around behind Pete, who exchanged a glance with Ryan. The tempting glaze was gone out of his eyes; he now looked merely exasperated. "You guys know each other, then?" said Pete.   
  
Brendon mumbled something about 'Ryan's little black book.' Ryan rolled his eyes. "Only since forever. I hit him on the head with a plastic spade when we were three and he's never forgotten it."  
  
"It was a really hard spade!" said Brendon indignantly. Pete would have liked to explore this interesting topic, he really would, but at that moment Mikey slipped into the kitchen and said, "Pete? I kinda need a ride."  
  
♣♣♣  
  
Pete's hands clenched too hard on the steering wheel. He hadn't used the two o'clock position since getting his permit, and his elbows told on him now.  
  
"So Gerard took my car - our car, I mean," said Mikey. "We both have keys."  
  
"Okay," said Pete, carefully light.  
  
"He came with Frank," said Mikey. "I assumed he was gonna leave with Frank too, but he just took off."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"And I have an eleven-thirty curfew."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"You can maybe go back to the party afterwards?"  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Jesusfuck," Mikey burst out, "will you say something other than _okay_?"  
  
"Um," said Pete, "okay?"  
  
"You could stop acting like your dog died," muttered Mikey. "If you didn't want to give me a ride -"  
  
"It’s fine, Mikes, I'm sorry." Pete took a corner sharply, riding up over the curb. "Shit."  
  
"Actually, if I'd known I was taking my life into my hands..." said Mikey. Pete snuffled a laugh. It cracked the tension, but didn't break it.  
  
Pete pulled up outside the Ways' house and killed the engine. "Okay," he said, not entirely by accident. "See you Monday, I guess."  
  
"We have a lesson, right?"  
  
"Sure, if you want."  
  
" _Pete_." A universe of frustration was compressed into that one word. "Why are you mad at me?"  
  
"I'm not mad at you!" said Pete, overly vehement. "I'm not."  
  
Mikey sent him a long, cool look. He'd hardly ever looked Pete in the eye before. It made him shudder, warm sparks soaking his spine.  
  
His next words took Pete completely by surprise. "I don't like homophobes," he said.  
  
"What the _fuck_?" spluttered Pete. "What? Homophobes? Where did that come from?"  
  
"You saw me hugging Gabe and now you're all weird with me," said Mikey.  
  
"That's not - it's -" _jealousy, I wanted it to be me_. Pete couldn't say that. He stared at Mikey in mute appeal.  
  
"Gabe likes to fool around," said Mikey. "He goes overboard, sometimes, and it makes people uncomfortable. But you looked ... horrified."  
  
"Yeah, well," said Pete weakly, "I thought you were straight."  
  
There was a silence so long that Pete got impatient, and snuck a glance at Mikey. Who was staring at him, a little smile playing across his lips.   
  
"What?" snapped Pete. He hunched in his shoulders. All this _looking_ \- between the hair and the caps and the glasses, Mikey hid it well, but his eyes were white-hot laser beams currently charring Pete's soul.  
  
"I think you should kiss me now," said Mikey. His voice had a growl to it.   
  
"Oh. Oh. Okay," said Pete.   
  
And he did.  
  
♣♣♣  
  
Frank's attempts to mediate through Gerard's friends went a little something like this:  
  
Frank: "Hey, you're Bob, right?"  
  
Bob: "Fuck off and die, Iero."  
  
Frank: "Greta, I was wondering if I could talk to you -"  
  
Greta: "Then you can stop wondering. No."  
  
Frank saw Gerard only from a distance, hemmed in by the glowering Nordic faces of his two best friends. He looked disconsolate. Frank could relate. If some bastard kissed him under the fairy lights then ran away like he'd got a faceful of herpes, Frank would be pissed too. The problem lay in actually _being_ the bastard.   
  
Frank decided it was all Gabe's fault.  
  
He ran into Gabe at the close of the day. Gabe held a mammoth coffee cup, which looked very much like two super-sized coffee cups stuck together with the bottom of one busted through. Jon was fairly easy going, especially for a barista who got as much free coffee was he wanted. He'd probably have let Gabe drink from the machine if it wasn't bolted down.  
  
"Yo, brother," said Gabe. Frank just stared at him until Gabe lowered his arm and reeled in his fingers. "I wanted to thank you for getting Gee to the party on Saturday. Massive props, hats with feathers, et cetera."  
  
Frank wondered if even Gabe understood half of what Gabe said, but he had more pressing matters to discuss. "I think I blew it," he said.  
  
"You sure did," agreed Gabe. Frank stared. Gabe sipped his coffee owlishly. "Hey, man, don't expect to make out with boys in my gazebo and dump them without me knowing about it. I have a basement, you know."  
  
"Uh. Okay," said Frank. "I didn't. I mean, I did. It was."  
  
"A disaster, a tsunami of failed passion," said Gabe. Warming to the theme, he continued, "A tunnel of love with no light at the end. A match made in the eighth circle of hell."  
  
"One of those, yeah," said Frank.  
  
"Regardless, you'd better make up and kiss," said Gabe. "I need Gee at the Battle of the Bands next week. I have the cash, you have the pretty mouth, between us we will rule the world."  
  
"Why do you want Gee at the Battle of the Bands?" asked Frank suspiciously.  
  
"Well," said Gabe, putting his arm around Frank's neck. "Walk with me. You may not know this, but Gee's brother Mikey is a bassist of no mean skill. I want him to play in my band so we'll win and people will worship me as their god. But he can't play if he's not there, and he won't be there if Gee isn't, because their mom has some crazy rule about boys in bands. Or mosh pits. Or flea pits. Some fucking thing, anyway. Are you picking up what I'm putting down?"  
  
"I think so," said Frank. "It still doesn't mean -"  
  
Gabe slipped a wad of cash into Frank's jeans pocket and patted it familiarly. "I've heard a fat bundle of cash can be inspirational. Just ask Kurt Vonnegut."  
  
"Is he in my class?" yelled Frank, but Gabe was already walking away. Well, shuffling; his pants puddled around his feet and hobbled him.   
  
Frank went around the corner to a quiet shady place. He counted the money and nearly fell over.   
  
No one was worth that much money. Except Gerard. Gerard kind of was.   
  
♣♣♣  
  
Gerard was staring at Fortitude in F Major and wondering for the seventh time if he should just kick his own ass and buy it. The usual arguments sailed through his head: it cost almost all his savings, he had nowhere to hang it, he was (hopefully) moving to England in a few months and the last thing he needed was a six-foot square painting as a carry-on. It still sang out to him, begging to be owned. Gerard only hoped his own creations would do that to someone one day.  
  
He was only peripherally aware of his surroundings, which was why Frank had probably been standing behind him for twenty minutes before Gerard noticed.   
  
Gerard was mentally prepared for seeing Frank at school. He knew when their paths were most likely to cross and steeled himself not to look, while Greta and Bob ran interference. Right now, though, he was raw and exposed. Frank's very hair looked miserable. Gerard tried his best not to care.  
  
Frank remained steadfastly mute as he sat down beside Gerard and began bouncing his leg.   
  
"If you've come to apologize -" began Gerard.  
  
"I'm not sorry," said Frank.   
  
The blow hit Gerard right in the heart. He scrabbled for his bag, a geyser of hurt threatening to spill behind his eyes.  
  
"Hey, Gee, stop." Frank curled his hand around Gerard's wrist. "I'm not sorry I kissed you. I shouldn't have left, though. I was a jerk."  
  
"No kidding," sniffed Gerard. He didn't relax his hold on his bag, but he didn't pull out of Frank's grip, either.  
  
Frank seemed to take this as permission to slide his palm across Gerard's. "This is pretty new for me, you know? You could cut me some slack."  
  
"I'm not the gay slut of the year myself," Gerard pointed out. "You want to freak out, fine. But do it on your own time. I've had enough of guys who turn on and off like light switches."  
  
"Bad experiences, huh?" Frank's stroking fingers were mindlessly soothing, with an edge of 'oh my god, he's holding my _hand_.'   
  
"Yeah." Gerard sucked in a breath. "I fell in love in ninth grade - hey, don't laugh! You're laughing!" He poked Frank in the side. "This is serious, okay. I thought we were meant to be, written in the stars. I wrote his name on every notebook I owned, which was totally embarrassing when he dumped me after I blew him."  
  
Frank's eyes got round and wanting at the last bit. Gerard blushed.   
  
"Tell me he at least returned the favor," said Frank. He sounded breathless.  
  
Gerard shook his head. "Ga - I mean, he doesn't do some things. Most things. Gay with caveats."  
  
"It was Gabe, wasn't it? That's why your mom doesn't want Mikey near him!" Frank winced. "Dude, I can't believe you told your _mom_."  
  
"I didn't," said Gerard, closing his eyes in terrible recollection. "She ... walked in on us..."  
  
"Mother _fuck_. C'mere." Frank pulled him into a hug, tucking Gerard's head into his neck. Apart from the bit where he couldn't breathe, it was really sweet. "Just, don't think about it. God. I feel for you, man."  
  
"She was madder about the fact that he used me than the rest," said Gerard. "She's pretty cool. But our dad was in a band, too, and _he_ ran off after Mikey was born, so she hasn't got the greatest opinion of musicians."  
  
"I guess there's no hope you'll be my date to Battle of the Bands, then?"  
  
Gerard's breath fluttered. "Are you asking me out again?"  
  
"Trying." Frank let Gerard pull away. Their knuckles bumped as Frank's fingers twisted nervously. "This time I promise not to abandon you because you're such a great kisser -"  
  
"I am?"  
  
"- and I want to make it up to you, so. Tell me how I can make it up to you."  
  
Gerard looked into Frank's eyes. The pupils were big and black, and Gerard could _tell_ the exact point when Frank thought he was going to kiss him, because Frank's breathing came faster and his cheeks flushed.  
  
Smirking, Gerard pulled Frank to his feet. Frank stumbled a little, surprised, but that was fine; Gerard caught his weight, warm and heavy against his side.   
  
"Where are we going?" asked Frank.  
  
"To make it up to me," said Gerard.  
  
♣♣♣  
  
Apparently Gerard's notion of penance was paintballing.  
  
"Mikey won't go with me, he's too afraid of the pain," explained Gerard as they suited up. "And Bob is anti-guns and Greta just doesn't like it, or something, and she heard about how someone tore a ligament and never walked properly again -"  
  
"Sell it to me, why don't you," muttered Frank. Gerard just laughed.   
  
It was the middle of the week and an off-peak season. The lone ticket attendant fell over herself to serve them, but Frank put that down to Gerard's winning smile. A little snake of jealousy awoke and uncoiled in his belly. He wasn't morally allowed to get jealous over the guy he was being paid to date, but it was happening just the same. And getting worse all the time.   
  
Paintballing, if not exactly what Frank wanted to do to Gerard, was still fun. Frank could duck and dive better than Gerard, who ran like a penguin, but Gerard had the superior aim. One shot got Frank right in the face. He stopped to wipe off his dripping goggles and Gerard fly-tackled him from behind.  
  
Happily for Frank's back and his affection for Gerard, they fell backwards into a decorative haystack. It cushioned the fall, but Gerard's weight knocked all the breath out of Frank's chest. It wasn't an entirely unpleasant feeling.  
  
"Hey," said Gerard, grinning down at him.  
  
"Hey," said Frank. It started out as a pant, and ended in a whine, as Gerard shifted on top of him. "Gee, I -"  
  
"You have paint all over your face," Gerard informed him. Frank stared at him blankly. Gerard's legs were hot and heavy, Frank couldn't control the restless heaving of his hips and Gerard wanted to talk about _paint_?  
  
Gerard extricated a hand from the tangle of hay and bodies and touched a finger to Frank's cheek. The tip of his tongue stuck out as he carefully finger-painted Frank's face, dragging the drips on his cheekbone in swirls up to his forehead and down to the soft hollow beneath his jaw. Frank's breathing got more audible and more embarrassing with every passing second, but Gerard was either deep in concentration or a ruthless tease.  
  
Gerard's head dropped closer and as his mouth hovered over Frank's he thought _finally_. But Gerard just frowned and dabbed paint on Frank's fluttering eyelids. His touch was delicate, precise, and unbearable. Frank was thirteen again, unable to stop _wanting_.  
  
"There!" Gerard rolled away. "All done. You look real pretty now."  
  
"What, I didn't before?" grumbled Frank. He sat up in a hurry, in case Gerard might see what he couldn't have missed in the last five minutes.   
  
"Of course," said Gerard. He grabbed Frank and kissed his ear. "Get up, I'm kicking your sorry ass here."  
  
Gerard won by a huge margin, and despite Frank's best efforts, there was no further kissing of any kind whatsoever. Later - after he'd rushed upstairs without stopping to say hi to his mom, or eat dinner, or wash the paint off - Frank realized that might have been Gerard's plan all along.   
  
♣♣♣  
  
Pete learned a couple of things about Mikey Way very quickly.  
  
The first, and most important, of these, was that Mikey Way was not gay above the waist. He was gay all over with Pete and not so much with anyone else - 'not Gabe, ever. I swear.' Which was _great_. In theory.  
  
The first few makeout sessions were everything Pete hadn't dared to hope for: long, and slow, mouths moving in a wet-smooth slide until Pete ached from it. He got hard from it, too, but he kept his hands on Mikey's shoulders or in his hair and made sure there was an inch between them at all times.  
  
That was all well and good until they finished watching The Blair Witch Project ('what? It's a date movie,' said Mikey, and cuddled into Pete during the 'scary' parts - it was a date movie). With a seriously stealth move Mikey got from lying on Pete's chest with Pete's arms around him, to straddling Pete's hips and pinning him to the bed, in about five seconds flat.  
  
Pete didn't even have time to speak before Mikey's tongue flicked past his parted lips. He shoved Pete's t-shirt up and started stroking his skin, which felt fucking awesome but did bad, bad things to his dick. Mikey pulled another stealth move so he was kneeling between Pete's legs, pushing them open.   
  
The kissing then became sloppier and greedier than anything Pete had ever experienced. Mikey was making needy little noises in the back of his throat, and his thumbs were rubbing heavy circles into Pete's hipbones.   
  
"Mikey," gasped Pete, when Mikey abandoned his mouth to suck on his jaw.   
  
"Yeah," Mikey moaned in reply, hips slamming down against Pete's.  
  
Which was when Pete learned another important thing about Mikey: he was a fucking priss at times.  
  
"Oh, _gross_ ," said Mikey, sitting up. Pete was desperately glad for the respite, despite his dick's complaints to the contrary. He noticed that the front of Mikey's jeans were kind of - fuck - Pete blushed. Mikey scowled, but his eyes were gleaming.  
  
"Next time, we take the clothes off _first_ ," he said, and stalked off to the bathroom.  
  
"Next time?" squeaked Pete. He was already trying to think of corpses and the usual suspects to cure an erection, but Mikey's growly voice and _ohshit_ Mikey with no clothes on were fucking with his mojo. Among other things.  
  
The third, fourth and fifth things Pete learned -  
  
Were nothing he'd want to share.  
  
♣♣♣  
  
When Gabe said it, he was half-grinning, and Gerard was totally calm. That was how Frank knew he knew.  
  
Battle of the Bands raged unabated after Gabe yelled - loud enough to be heard in Kentucky - about how he hadn't paid Frank to get the Way brothers here only for Mikey to dick around with Pete Wentz instead of playing. He'd said it differently, put it in such a way as to make his point completely unambiguous. Gabe might have been a jerk to Gerard in the past but whatever side he was on now, it wasn't Frank's. Modnab folks stuck together, and up until a few weeks ago, Frank had done his level best to stay out of their glue.  
  
Gerard looked at Frank for a long time, mouth wound up in a sort of half-smile. It was the same one he wore when Frank made him watch South Park, which he didn't really get but understood was supposed to be funny.  
  
"I was waiting for you to tell me," he said. He didn't raise his voice so Frank had to practically read his lips. Gerard walked away after that, dodging awkwardly through the crowd.   
  
He was waiting by Frank's car when Frank finally got out. It was pathetically hilarious: Mikey came with Pete, so Gerard had no option but to let Frank drive him home.  
  
He got in quietly and sat with his hands folded. Frank put the key in the ignition but didn't turn it. "Glovebox," he said, hoarsely.  
  
Gerard pulled out the white envelope. Frank stared out the window. He'd managed to convince the salesgirl to take back his Vans, even though they were clearly worn. She must have hated her job or God or the world, because he talked her around in the end.   
  
He heard Gerard release a shaky sigh.   
  
"I'm glad I trusted you," he said.  
  
"You maybe shouldn't be," said Frank. "I was really tempted to trade up my car, for a while. For five minutes."  
  
Really, if he was honest, he'd bought the painting for Gerard in his mind the first time he saw Gerard look at it. He must have known - even then - that he'd do anything to keep that look on Gerard's face.  
  
"Hell, no," said Gerard. He took Frank's hand, brought it to his mouth, and kissed it. "We haven't even broken in the backseat yet."  
  
♣♣♣  
  
Brendon stared into his drink. He'd broken a shoelace and hit his elbow off the bar top really hard, and in spite of his sufferings hadn't managed to procure a single alcoholic substance. Life sucked. Everything sucked. He wanted a hug.  
  
He twirled idly on the spinning chair - that was one thing that didn't suck, actually - and watched Gabe whisper sweet nothings in Ryan Ross' ear. Just because Gabe and Ryan were both Stars was no reason for Gabe to chat up Ryan. Ryan was evil and hit people with shovels and no matter what Brendon said it never sunk in for people.  
  
Ryan rolled his eyes, which meant he was laughing in his head. Ryan rarely laughed aloud. Brendon should know. He'd only been watching Ryan for fourteen years, just in _case_ he should decide to extend his career of violence.  
  
Ryan - Ryan was stalking towards Brendon, rolling his hips in that _way_. The way that was seriously sexy, only Brendon couldn't think that about Ryan Ross, ever, in case Ryan Ross really could read minds. Brendon was too pretty to die this young.  
  
"Hey, B'den." Ryan leaned forward and hugged Brendon really hard. As in, their collarbones crashed together and Brendon got an elbow to the ribs. As quick as that, Ryan pulled back. "Bye, B'den."  
  
"Hey, wait! You can't just -" Brendon flailed and got a handful of Ryan's scarf. "You can't just hug me and _leave_."  
  
"Isn't that what you wanted?" asked Ryan. He looked world-weary and put-upon.   
  
"Kind of," said Brendon. He wrapped Ryan's scarf around his hands. It was really soft. Brendon bet Ryan's mouth was really soft, too. "I think I might be in love with you, okay."  
  
"Jesus, I _know_ ," said Ryan. "Buy me a 7-Up and I'll give you a handjob in my car, okay?"  
  
"Okay!" said Brendon happily. "Do you love me too, Ryan Ross?"  
  
"Shut up," said Ryan, but he let Brendon tie their hands together with his scarf, anyway.  
  
♣♣♣  
  
"I am magnificent," said Gabe, beating his chest.  
  
"This is true," said Bill. "Too magnificent to buy your own amps."  
  
"Do you know how many couples I have thwarted destiny for tonight?" demanded Gabe. "Take a guesstimate, I dare you."  
  
"I can't, I'm scared," said Bill dryly. "Most of them will have broken up by the end of summer."  
  
"They'll still have it, though," said Gabe. "Their summer of love."  
  
There was a lull in the conversation as Bill pulled down the door of his garage. Gabe was much too important for such demeaning labor.   
  
"Shall we have a summer of love?" asked Gabe. He'd been in love with Bill since forever, but he didn't think Bill quite got it. Gabe understood: he was kind of trashy and told most people he met that he loved them. He'd never told Bill, but Bill never noticed.  
  
Bill gave the suggestion the consideration it deserved: five seconds. "Nah," he said. "Let's get abducted by aliens instead."


End file.
